


Take These Broken Wings

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Conditioning, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hints of Clint Barton/Leo Fitz, M/M, Mind Control, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Slavery (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment the man entered Clint's hospital room, Clint dropped to the floor.</p><p>It was what he was conditioned to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take These Broken Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Mr. Mister song "Broken Wings"

The first thing he did when a man entered the very cleanpractically sterileroom that he was staying in was dive off of the bed someone had put him in and kneel on the floor with his head bowed and hands folded behind his back. The footsteps stopped immediately, the man seeming surprised at his sudden movements. He chastised himself; he was never supposed to move without direct permission. Then again, he was never allowed to be on furniture, either, so one Rule had to be broken.

Anxiety swirled through his chest at the thought of the punishment he was sure to receive for being on the bed. He didn't understand why he'd been on the bed in the first place; the last thing he remembered was people decked out in black and carrying big guns storming into the main bedroom, where he'd been waiting for the men to return. They'd tried to move him and then...and then he woke up wearing light-colored clothing of a strange material and under a white blanket in a bed.

The footsteps started up again, this time much slower than the first time around. They stopped once again after a few moments, and then there was the sound of something being dragged across the floor; his body wanted to flinch at the noise, but he was far too used to loud bangs and crashes to be shocked by something as small as a little scraping sound.

"Hello, my name is Phil Coulson. I'm an Agent of SHIELD, and you're currently in the medical wing of a SHIELD facility. Can you tell me your name?" The man said in a polite voice. He wasn't fooled, though, so he didn't speak back. After a minute of silence, the man spoke again. "It's ok, you can talk. You're safe now, no one's going to hurt you."

He still didn't reply. He'd been through this type of situation before; some of the men had liked pretending to be kind in the beginning just to trip him up, get him to break one of The Rules so that they could punish him thoroughly. Not that they didn't hurt him already; this just gave them an excuse to be even crueler than usual.

Another few minutes passed and then the man sighed and stood up, leaving the room. He didn't move for at least five more minutes, but when he looked up he saw that the chair that used to be by the door was now sitting a couple feet away from him; the chair being moved must have been the dragging sound he had heard before. After he took a brief look around the room, he lowered his head once again.

He'd lost track of how much time had passed when he heard footsteps again, this time two pairs. The footsteps stopped a few feet away, where he imagined the door was, and neither of the new people said anything. He stayed silent himself, of course, and so there was no sound in the room for a few minutes. Then a deep voice said, "he hasn't moved since you left, has he?"

"No," the same voice from the first time he'd been visited said, "the camera shows thatexcept for a brief examination of the room after I left where he simply lifted his headhe hasn't moved a single inch from his position in the past two hours."

"Hell," the deep-voiced man grumbled. "Dr. Richardson is on her way, so we can start figuring out what's wrong with the kid. Dr. Smith said that there was heavy signs of abuseboth sexual and physicalso this could be a response to that, I guess."

"Talking about me, boys? I'm flattered," a new voice said. He instantly relaxed a little at the sound of it, the distinctly feminine lilt to it calming his nerves. "So, how is our mysterious John Doe?"

"Well," the man-from-before said calmly, "he hasn't moved an inch in over two hours, so I applaud his discipline, I just hate the thought bugging me that it's not _self taught_ discipline."

There was the sound of footsteps and soon a small pair of feet came into his view. A pair of knees followed them as the person kneeled down in front of him, petite hands in the woman's lap when she crossed her legs. "You know," the woman said conversationally, "my daughter, she's five, and she _loves_ when I sit like this; absolutely adores it. She calls it _pretzel sitting,_ she learned how to do it in her Kindergarten class and she simply can't get enough of it. You should join me in sitting like this, your legs must be hurting you from being in once position for so long."

It was true, his legs _did_ hurt. Not as much as his neck, of course, but a good amount. Most of him was hesitant to follow the woman's suggestion; he was not at all used to being treated with kindness, and when he was, it was a trick. Then again, women had never been a part of his Sessions. The times he had interacted with the opposite sex hadn't been negative, so maybe it was alright...

He glanced up ever-so-slightly just to make sure. The woman was looking at him with an earnest expression, a small, kind smile on her lips. She tilted her head to meet his eyes better when he glanced up at her, and nodded encouragingly. Slowly, as to make sure every movement was alright, he shifted himself from his kneeling position into one mirroring the woman's crossed-legs one. He kept his hands behind his back and his head bowed, but he looked up at the woman to make sure he'd done the right thing, very unsure.

The woman gave him a wider smile, still just as soft as the small one from before, and said, "very good. See? That wasn't so bad. Now, would you tell me your name? Mine is Dr. Amelia Richardson."

Anxiety spiked in his chest; did she really expect him to speak? Did she really want him to, or was it just a test? And if she did want him to, then would she get angry when he couldn't answer her question? He didn't have a name; surely she'd punish him for not being able to answer her question.

Figuring that the punishment for not knowing would be less than the one for not answering, he cleared his throat and tried to speak. "I don't-" his voice was cracked and airy from disusethe men never wanted him to speak, only scream, so he hadn't had to talk in a long time. "I don't have a name; things don't have names," he finally managed.

The woman's soft expression softened even further. "Alright, would you mind if we took your fingerprints, then? If we run it against several databases we might get a hit and know your name." He hesitated, unsure; was it an order? He was so used to orders, not requests. What was he supposed to do with a request, with a _choice?_ Misinterpreting his silence, the woman rushed to reassure him. "Don't worry, it doesn't hurt at all. And it's perfectly fine to say no."

He almost laughed out loud at that; perfectly ok to say _no?_ Was she insane? He couldn't say no! Her words were definitely a trick, then; it _was_ an order, just disguised as to trick him into breaking a Rule so that the men standing by the door could punish him. So he nodded and brought his hands out from behind his back, offering them to her without looking up from the floor.

There was the sound of footsteps again and he tensed once more as one of the men approached slowly. The footsteps stopped by him for a moment and then retreated back to where they'd started.

"This is an ink pad," the woman said, holding out a small black case to show him, "we use it to get the imprint of your fingerprints. I'm going to press each of your fingers to the ink pad, and then to a piece of paper. Is that alright?" He didn't say anything, just pushed his hands a bit more forward. The woman took them and opened the case. She slowly put each of the tops of his fingers against it; when she took them away, they were covered in black. The woman then pressed his fingers to a thick piece of plain paper. When she was done there was the impression of his fingerprints on the paper.

"See? Not painful at all. You did really well. Now, I'll be back soon, ok? I'm going to take these to the lab," the woman said. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand darted out and grabbed her wrist. She inhaled sharply in surprise, and there were some started footsteps by the door. "No, no, stay there, I'm fine," the woman said, talking to the men at the door.

Realizing what he'd done, he instantly pulled his hand back behind his back and shifted back into his kneeling position, lowering his head until his forehead hit the floor. He shook slightly, waiting for the punishment that was sure to follow. That was one of the Rules: never touch someone unless expressly told tothings didn't get to just touch someone.

"It's fine, ok? I'm completely fine, and I'm not angry with you. You're scared and feel alone, and I've been nice to you; you didn't want me to leave, it's perfectly normal. I'm not mad, and you will _not_ be punished," the woman said, voice calm and even. "I'm going to sit with you, okay? I'm not going to leave. Phil and Nick will take the imprints to the lab. I'm not mad, and I won't leave you."

He continued to shake, not believing her. He didn't know how long he stayed like that, forehead pressed firmly against the floor, hands clasped tightly behind his back, body shaking. What could've been five minutes later or five hours later, the two men returned, footsteps seeming louder and heavier than before.

"The results are back; his name is Clinton Francis Barton, twenty-three years old. His _abusive_ parents died in a car crash when he was eight and his brother, Charles Bernard Barton, was fourteen. After that the two boys bounced from orphanage to foster family and back again until Clinton was twelve years old, which is when they joined a circus that had been passing through town. Three years later Clinton disappeared and his brother went on to a life of crime. Charles Barton was three years into a five year sentence two months ago when he got out on parole for good behavior," there was a pause, and then, "two agents were just sent to get him."

He couldn't help the strangled whimper that escaped him at the sound of Charles Barton's name.  _Barney._ Nono, things didn't have family. They didn't have feelings or thoughts or anything else and he was going to be punished for making a noise and the kind lady was going to leave him because everyone leaves and everyone hates him, even Barney, andandand

"Clint," the woman said quietly. "Clint, you have to calm down. Hyperventilating is bad, especially in the position your sitting in. You have a name, Clint, ok? You have a name and a life, and you can go back to that."

"No!" He blurted out, unable to stop himself. Realizing what he'd down, he started shaking in earnest, pressing his forehead so hard against the floor that he was sure that it would leave a mark and squeezing his hands together so tightly that they were probably going to bruise.

For the next hourhe counted the seconds and minutes in his headthe woman tried to get him to calm down, but it was to no avail. He had _spoken without permission;_ he was practically asking for a beating. He hadn't spoken without permission is over five years. Frankly, he hadn't just plain _spoken_ in at least a year. What was going on with him? He was breaking all of The Rules. When the men came back to get him he was going to be in for loads and loads and _loads_ of pain.

After an hour and a half, there was the sound of more footsteps. There was a murmured conversation, the words too quiet for him to hear, and then someone stepped further into the room. That pair of footsteps stopped when the person could be no more than a foot away from him. "Clint?" The person said incredulously.

He whimpered at the sound of that voice, so very familiar. He _knew_ the man. The man that had taken care of him after his parents had died. The man had made sure he ate enough and slept enough. The man who started hating him when he was better at archery than him. The man that got rid of him at the first opportunity, using him for the only thing he was good at and not caring about what it did to him. He'd been fifteen years old when that man sold him. He'd been fifteen when the manand many othershad used his body for the first time.

"Clint, oh my god, they found you! Thank god, I was so worried," the man _Barney_ said in a rush. "When they took you from me I was heartbroken. God, Clint, it's been eight years. What did they _do_ to you?"

He shrunk further into himself as Barney spoke. When Barney was done, the room was silent except for the sound of his heaving breaths. "Mr. Charles Barton, is it?" the woman asked kindly.

"Uh, yeah," Barney said distractedly. "But please, call me Barney, everyone does. Has he said anything about what happened to him?" There was the shuffle of feet, and then a hand landed on his back, which he flinched at, but the hand didn't leave. "Is Clint going to be ok?"

He knew what he was supposed to do in that moment. So he did; he raised his head off of the floor and straightened his back until he was back in his kneeling position from before. He shuffled over to Barney and reached out, quickly undoing the man's belt buckle.

Multiple people spoke at the same time, all calling out in alarm. Barney yelled, _"what the hell are you doing?"_ and the woman said, _"Clint, don't do that,"_ and the other two men by the door made sounds of surprise and took a few steps further into the room.

He shrunk away, leaning forward once again and pushing his forehead against the floor once more. He was shaking again, not understanding what he'd done wrong. That's what Barney had always wanted from him. Why was now any different? And why was Barney being so nice? Barney had always been one of the crueler men, liking to hurt him while he fucked him. Barney always insulted him, letting him know that he was only good for one thing. So what had changed?

"Mr. Barton," the woman said softly, "you'll have to forgive your brother. We believe he was forced into some form of sexual slavery. When it comes to men, he won't speak, turning completely submissive. I was able to get him to say a few words, but he looked incredibly uncomfortable doing it, as if expecting to be punished. He shakes whenever he thinks he's done something wrong; he seems completely terrified."

There was a brief silence, and then, "Oh. God, Clint, I'm so sorry this happened to you. How did you find him?"

"We were hunting down a drug lord, and intel said that he was hiding out at a certain location. When our teams went to the location, we found a group of men and took them down, and then found Clint in one of the bedrooms. He'd been kneeling on the floor, just waiting," one of the men by the door said. "We tried to get him to move, but he silently refused to. After a while we just had to sedate him to finally be able to take him with us."

"How many of the men did you take down?" Barney asked curiously.

"Seven. We got the impression that there were moremany morebut those were the only men there at the time," the same man from the doorway said.

"Well, I'm glad you got the ones you did," Barney said harshly, "Buck and Jacques are just horrible people, especially for what they've done to my brother. Did you catch them, or are they still on the loose?"

There was a long pause, and then two pairs of footsteps sounded, the men by the door entering the room slowly. "How do you know who had your brother, Mr. Barton? We didn't even have those names yet." Another long silence. Then there was the sound of someone standing up very quickly and trying to run, and a bunch of grunts as some people fought and then restrained someone.

"He deserved it!" Barney yelled. "He's just a little slut, good for nothing except being an open hole for us to use!"

He shrunk in on himself even further at Barney's words, even though he knew they were true. The only thing he was good at was taking it without complaint; he used to be amazing with a bow, but it had been years and years since he'd even looked at one, let alone used one. So why were people yelling at Barney about him being arrested? Barney shouldn't be punished for using him the way he was supposed to be used. He was a thing, an object. You didn't arrest people for using a blender or a car, so why Barney?

"Clint, it's ok, he's gone now," the woman said after the excitement had died down and Barney was taken away. "That's why you... _approached_ him in that way, right? It was because that's what you were used to doing for your brother," a pause, and then, "just nod if I'm right." He nodded. "He was wrong, just so you know. You are good for so much more than other people's pleasure."

He turned his head side to side in disagreement, knowing that she was wrong. "No," he whispered, "objects have purposes; that is mine."

* * *

The next few weeks were very interesting ones for Clint. The first thing they (Dr. RichardsonAmeliaand a few female SHIELD agents and himself) worked on was accepting the fact that he wasn't an object, that he was a person with a name and feelings and thoughts and emotions. It took him a full ten days of rigorous therapy to come to the conclusion that he was safe now, and that the men who had him weren't coming back to get him, so he was allowed to have a name. It was on day eleven that he responded when called Clint.

Men were kept away from him for the most part, since Clint still couldn't fight the instinct inside of him that compelled him to drop to the floor and do whatever they told him to do. Anything told to him by a man went straight to his brain as an order, and he couldn't shake it.

So, because men were not allowed near him, the team of people involved in his recovery were Amelia, who was his medical doctor and his first friend at SHIELD, Jamie Smith, who was his therapist and psychiatrist, and Natasha Romanov and Bobbi Morse, who were two SHIELD Agents that took him to the gym to train him as something to do. Natasha and Bobbi were both fierce fighters, and very protective of Clint. He had a feeling that oneor bothof them was reporting back to someone about him, but he didn't care much; they were his friends, even if he didn't know why.

It was four weeks into Clint's new life when the incident happened. He was eating lunch in the room that had become _his_ room, (which was a big deal, because he couldn't really remember the last time he'd had something of his own) when the man entered. Clint was pretty shockedhe hadn't seen a man since the first day he had woken up in the SHIELD medical roomand immediately moved off the bed and into a kneeling position on the floor, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back.

"Amazing," the man said quietly, voice filled with amusement. "That's just plain incredible." The man stepped further into the room, circling around Clint and running his hand through Clint's hair and across the line of his shoulders. When the man finished his second lap around Clint, he stopped in front, and spoke again. "Head up." It was a clear command, and Clint's head immediately snapped up.

The man standing in front of him was tall and broad, with an oval-shaped face, spikey black hair, and dark brown eyes. He lips were twisted in a cruel smirk, a look Clint had been so used to back in his old life, but had been so happy to live without in his new one. Why was this happening? Where were Amelia or Jamie or Natasha or Bobbi? Or Sharon Carter, another SHIELD Agent that had started joining their training? Why weren't they there, how had the man even made it to Clint's room without being stopped?

"Open," the man commanded as he undid his belt buckle and pulled down his pants zipper. Clint did as ordered, but with one noticeable difference from all the other times he had done this act; he didn't _want_ to. Well, he'd never actually wanted to do what the men told him to do, but his conditioning made it so that it was his normal; he was used to it, accepted it, even. But now, after four weeks of not having to follow any orders, of having friends who seemed to truly care about him, Clint wanted to fight against these commands with everything he had. And he was trying, he really was. The only problem was he'd been trained for so long to not fight.

So, it happened. The man used Clint the way so many had before him. Clint did as he was told, even though, with every bob of his head, he hated it. He hated the man and he hated the men that had made him that way and he hated his doctors for not curing him yet (not really) and he hated himself for letting it happen, for being so weak that he couldn't fight it.

When the man finished and pulled out, he tucked himself back into his pants and looked down at Clint with a smug expression. "You will not tell anyone that I was here, or what you did for me," it was an order; a very strong one, "understood?" Clint nodded slightly to show that he did, and then the man turned away, giving Clint one last smug look before leaving.

The week following the Incident included lots of worried looks from his friends as he shrunk into himself a bit more, his infrequent smiles almost non-existent, his bouts of talking fewer and far in between. The manwho he learned was named Rumlowreturned four more times before someone realized what was happening.

Rumlow had just been getting a rhythm thrusting into Clint's mouth on his fifth visitjust ten days after the first onewhen someone else entered the room. Rumlow clearly didn't notice at first, too wrapped up in his own pleasure to pay attention to what was going on around him. It wasn't until the person, who Clint identified as Bobbi when she spoke, called out, "Agent Rumlow!" and yanked Rumlow away from Clint by twisting the man's arm did that he realized he was caught. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" She hissed.

Rumlow growled from his hunched over position and tried to get out of Bobbi's hold, but it was pointless; Bobbi was very skilled at forcing people into positions that couldn't escape fromboth physically and mentally.

"Oh, _come on,_ Morse! You've seen those lips; how could I resist!" Rumlow jeered with a sneer. His words just caused Bobbi to twist his arm even harder. He grunted in pain. "He was _made_ for it, Morseliterally! It's what he was trained to do!"

Bobbi twisted his arm again with a snarl, and then turned her head to glance at Clint. She looked him over critically, making sure that he was alright. "How many times has this happened, Clint?" Clint, not feeling able to speak in front of Rumlow, held up a shaking hand with all his fingers up, indicating the number five. "Five times?" He nodded. "Over the past ten days, right? That's why you've been not really ok?" Again, he nodded. "Well, shit. Alright, let me just get this piece of shit out of here and then we can start again on getting you better."

* * *

The first thing they wanted him to learn is how to stay standing when he was near a man.

They brought in the most non-threatening-looking man they could find, a kind young man by the name of Leopold Fitz, who was an engineer for SHIELD. Clint pushed himself hard, fighting with everything he was against the instinct to drop to the floor upon Fitz's entry. They had been working on this particular skill for eleven days when he was able to keep himself up for a few seconds before falling to his knees. It was not a lot, but it was a start.

On day eighteen of trying he was able to keep himself standing. Even though his legs shook uncontrollably, it was a major accomplishment.

 

The second thing they wanted him to learn was how to speak to a man without first being ordered to.

They brought the engineer back, Leo Fitz. Clint began to like him and the way he stuttered and stumbled over his words, saying things and then getting embarrassed, or going off on a tangent about some invention that he was working on or another. It took exactly seven days before Clint said something to Fitz, and the best part was he did it completely unconsciously. Fitz had been complaining about something his friend Jemma had done, and Clint had smiled and interjected something funny Natasha and Bobbi had done. The two men had frozen and then grinned at each other.

 

The third thing they wanted him to learn was how to say the words _'no'_ and _'stop.'_

Fitz didn't come back for this one, but he visited whenever he could. Instead, Natasha brought an agent named Grant Ward. Ward would give Clint orders and Clint had to try to fight against them. This, of course, was so much harder than any of the other things Clint had overcome in his treatment. It took much longer for Clint to reach any step forward in this trial.  After fifteen days on non-stop orders being given to him, Clint hesitated for a split second before following it.

On day twenty-one he actually managed to croak out the word 'no,' even though he ended up following the order anyway. On day twenty-five he managed to say 'stop,' though forcing it out of his throat was like swallowing nails, and he still followed the order. On day thirty-two he actually kept himself from following the order given to him, but passed out immediately after from the exertion of stopping himself. On day thirty-five he said no and stood his ground, even looking Ward straight in the eyes. Ward pushed, getting closer and demanding that he do as he said, but Clint took a deep breath and held his position.

It was one of the hardest things Clint had ever had to do, but he did it.

* * *

**_Two Years Later_ **

Clint grinned as _Heat of the Moment_ began playing over the speakers, laughing because he knew Natasha had chosen it for just the reason of making him laugh. "Ah, Supernatural," he sighed dramatically, "how you make my heart clench." Sharon, who was standing next to him, shoved his shoulder and laughed back.

It had been a whole two and a half years since SHIELD had rescued him from the men that had had him, two years since he officially broke his conditioning. His life since then had been hard, filled with PTSD-fueled nightmares and panic attacks, and times when he was triggered with a certain phrase or word, and bouts of regression where he couldn't do anything except follow orders (Fury always gave him a bit of time off during this, with only the request that he attend extra therapy sessions). Despite all of this, Clint had become one of the best SHIELD agents there was.

"Speech!" Bobbi demanded, pulling him from his thoughts. The crowd around him cheered in agreement, and suddenly Clint found himself being pushed forward towards the front of the room, protesting all the while, but his friends gave him no room to argue.

"Uh," Clint started, a little unsure, "well, as I hate giving speeches and I'm a little drunk I'm gonna keep this quick so that you all can enjoy your drinks and the party," he paused, looking around nervously; even now, two years later, he still felt incredibly weird actually speaking in front of anyone. "A while ago SHIELD rescued me from an awful situation. A good amount of the people here were part of my recovery, and _everyone_ here was a part of making me feel welcome at SHIELD, so for that I want to say thank you. I owe so many of you so much, and I wouldn't change that for a second. So...that's it, I guess. Thanks for being here, everyone, and happy birthday to me!"

The crowd laughed and cheered, and then the music started up again, and Clint was pulled into dancing with Natasha. The female assassin looked him over critically and then smiled. "You're doing well, _yastreb;_ you've come a long way from where you were when I first met you."

Clint smiled. "It's a good life, Natasha-Grace." Natasha rolled her eyes at his lame reference, and then smiled over his shoulder. She pulled away from him and he frowned. "Nat, what-" he stopped suddenly when Leo Fitz suddenly appeared at his shoulder, smiling up at the archer hesitantly. "Ah, Leo! How are you?" He said with a large smile.

"I'm, uh, well, I'm good, you know...Nice speech, Clint," Leo said, smiling back. "Would you, um...would you like toI mean, if it's alright I'd like to...um..."

"Leo," Clint cut his friend off, unable to help the big smile that overtook his features, "I'd love to dance with you."

Leo's answering smile was breathtaking. "Okay, okay great," he replied a little breathlessly. Clint took the smaller man into his arms and smiled softly.

Yeah, it was a good life.


End file.
